What the Maze Made
by freudian fuckup
Summary: You didn't see it coming. It came out of the maze, and that's where it had to stay. It couldn't survive in the real world.


**This was written _ages_ ago. It's the first and only story I've ever done using a prompt/request. It's also the only Harry/Cedric I've ever seen, let alone written...**

You didn't see it coming. It came out of the maze, and that's where it had to stay. It couldn't survive in the real world.

"If this… If something _happens_, take care of her, alright?"

"What?"

But you knew what he meant. You just couldn't possibly imagine anything less important at that moment. You couldn't picture her face.

"Nothing's going to happen. Fleur and Krum will be fine. The judges'll sort them out. Dumbledore won't let—"

"_This isn't Dumbledore's game_. He's not in here. There something _wrong_. Do you understand, Harry?"

He looked a little disturbed, like a small child who just _knew_ there was something under the bed. You knew too. This wasn't Dumbledore's game. You wanted to tell him that you didn't think it was a game at all, not anymore, but instead you just nodded slowly.

He never looked scared, you remember that so clearly. He just looked _wary_, warning. Not fearful, but like he knew he was running out of time and had to make you understand.

But he must have been afraid. And he couldn't have known.

"Harry, none of this is right. This whole tournament's been _off_, but this maze, this fucking maze," and he laughed a little hysterically.

"I know."

"I don't think we're going to get out of here," he said levelly.

"What? Cedric, it's fine. We're going to be fine."

"No, _we're_ not. It wants blood, Harry. It tried to get Fleur and Krum but they escaped and we helped them and now it wants us. Can't you _feel_ it?"

When you stood perfectly still, you could swear you felt the maze breathing, _beating_ somehow. It was pulsing and throbbing and it definitely wanted something, but you decided it best not to say as much.

"Yeah. Yeah, I feel it. I feel it, alright?"

For a long time, you both just stood there, breathing and sweating and staring at each other.

"Here."

You must have been staring into space, because he had a hand extended with something in it.

"I can't… What is it?"

"It's Cho's. Well, it was before she gave it to me. But if one of us is getting out of here, I'm betting on you."

"What? Cedric, that's mad. I can't take this!"

"Yes. You can," he said with a tone of finality. "See she gets it back. And anyway, I think she'd rather you to have it now."

And just like that, his hand was on yours, pressing something cold and hard against you palm. He'd moved closer to reach you, and you could feel his breath on your skin- hot and damp and coming in short gasps. You could see the lines of sweat work their way down his face and you tried to look away.

Where your palms met, the sweat and blood mingled, lingering on your skin. Later that night, you'd stare down at your hand and wonder which streaks of salt and red were his, his last marks on the world, on you. But as it happened, you couldn't care less about the future, or what was to happen in the end—all that mattered in that instant was that you were both there and breathing and living and in it _together_. It was as though the world beyond the maze were a dream, and the only waking beings in all existence were the two of you.

The look in his eyes was feral, brimming with energy, as though he had such a large life to live and it was all being compacted into a few minutes. Maybe that was why he did it. You wake up nights wondering what made him—made him lean in that extra inch, made him press your lips together so forcefully, you stumbled back into the living walls.

Teeth clacked together and your mouths tried to consume one another, and every muscle in your body seemed to burn with exhaustion and excitement, all at once. It was agonizing and painful and he was gorgeous. Coated in grime, hair a mess, dirty fingernails gripping your wrist, you still can't imagine anything more beautiful. When they had the funeral, he'd been cleaned up remarkably, restored to his usual state of impeccable schoolboy propriety, but as you stared down at his lifeless face, you couldn't help but remember him as he was in the maze. Because in the end, no one else saw him as you did—alert and alive and unkempt. You like to think that was the _real_ person who lurked beneath the pristine façade, but who the fuck knows. Maybe it was just what the maze made of him.

"Harry," he whispered against your lips. "Make sure she knows I loved her."

You opened your mouth but couldn't think of a thing to say. All at once you remembered that this, _this_ was the boy she wanted, the one she chose over you ages and ages ago, but for some reason, the anger and frustration once so deeply associated with his face seemed to dissipate, and leave a strange calm in their wake. For every moment you'd spent wishing he were dead, you now wished nothing more than for him to be alive—alive and real and touching you.

Without thinking, you flung yourself at him. You wanted to taste him and touch him and consume him, because beneath his pounding heart and rushing blood, you could almost feel him running out. Not _fading_, but intensifying, so much so that it was obvious he couldn't sustain it. Burning and blazing and running out of fuel. No, you had him at his peak. There was nothing faded about it.

Your hands fisted his shirt, clinging to him as the walls changed. When the motion around you ceased, you found yourself on the ground, with him staring down at you, his palm flat against your sternum.

It came out of the maze. You never saw it coming. You certainly didn't plan it. But the next thing you knew, there was a flurry of motions and colors— red and yellow being torn away, fingers fumbling and rust colored zippers, until all that remained was white—pale white chests, shining and beating and breathing, pressed together as close as humanly possible, as your mouths struggled to consume one another. In a word, rushed. No ceremony in your movements as you each worked away at your trousers. Dirt and grit clung to your back, and your hands had never been more useless, but finally nothing remained between you but two thin layers of cotton.

Lips still united, you spread apart your legs and could feel his arousal digging into your hip as his thigh brushed your aching erection. Suddenly, you knew there wasn't time to bother with embarrassment or even underpants, and you simultaneously morphed into a flurry of thrusts and gasps and rough, boyish sounds, as you ground against one another in the middle of the maze that had unhinged you both.

It was the maze's fault when you bit his jaw line, and moaned against his flesh. It was the maze's fault when you slid a hand between you, intent on touching yourself, only to take hold of his cock with careless, furious strokes. And it was the maze's fault when you came against his leg, with a scream and a lurch, so that your head slammed back into the ground so hard you saw stars and your body felt as though it were on fire in the best way imaginable. The fact that you couldn't see _her_ face in the hazy moments afterwards, _that_ you blame on him.

As though in tune with its occupants, the maze began to move once more, and he was on his feet in a half a heartbeat, jumper in hand, trousers pulled up. You stumbled and grasped for your things, barely getting hold of your shirt as it was dragged away by a stray shifting branch. Neither of you spoke, knowing everything that needed be said had been, and then you were running.

Footfalls heavy against the ground—his lips and blood—wind rustling the already-moving hedge—someone's gasp, let out by accident—the stars, barely penetrating the unnatural darkness surrounding you both—the stars behind your eyelids from the blossoming pain in your skull and the white, consuming pleasure in your groin. These are the things you remember, whether you want to or not.

Some nights you do—want to, that is. You shut your eyes and swallow hard until his face swims into focus behind the haze of horror and tragedy that seems to surround you in the wake of—of everything. You remember the slope of his shoulders and the curve of his spine and the lock of hair that fell across his face as he came. You hate these nights, because they make you feel helpless and weak. You hate yourself.

Some nights you don't want to remember. You fuck faceless girls that follow you out of the Quidditch pitch, and you are careful never to speak when you come, for fear of whose name you might murmur (not that they can _possibly_ expect you to know their names). You hate these nights too, because they make you feel bitter. Bitter for being left with these fucking memories that can never be proven or understood or recreated, because you were caught up in something so much bigger than yourself (as always), and he had to go and get himself killed before you had a chance to fucking sort it out. You hate him for it.

Some nights, you can't remember. You can't recall if it really happened, and your stomach sinks and you decided it was a dream. You grasp at images and find pictures of his face, but he's never dirty enough in these pictures, never desperate enough. Only you knew him in the maze. You hate these nights, these days, these years, because they make you feel a fool, duped by life and lust and temporary, blessed insanity. You hate the maze.


End file.
